


i'll love your light, i'll love you right

by evewithanapple



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 05:50:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1376209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evewithanapple/pseuds/evewithanapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She has not spoken of the difficulty in being separated from her husband; perhaps she does not feel it. Anne cannot condemn her for that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'll love your light, i'll love you right

She is Anne. She is the Queen of France, Infanta of Spain and Portugal, failed vessel for the royal bloodline.

With Constance, she is only Anne. She doesn't know how to express her gratitude.

* * *

 

"Wait," she says one night. She is sitting up in bed, her hair loose, her jewels and crown gone. Still, it is not easy to abandon the queenship. She is alone in a bed that could fit six grown men, a silk nightgown slipping from her shoulders, surrounded by the art that the French crown prides itself on maintaining. She is the only thing in the room that is not gorgeous, not full of royal pomp. In the eyes of the people, she is majestic. Under the eyes of her husband’s ancestors, she is small.

Constance turns, hair slipping from her shoulders to fall over her collarbone. She is the only lady remaining; Anne has sent the rest of them away. She does not like most of these French women, who take their pay from the Cardinal (they try to hide the fact; he has never bothered) and comb through her sheets to find blood every month and report her failure far and wide. She can hear their whispers. Constance is the only one among them who refrains- an oddity, considering that her position in Anne's bedchamber is owed entirely to her husband's favour with Richelieu. She has not spoken of the difficulty in being separated from her husband; perhaps she does not feel it. Anne cannot condemn her for that.

"Wait," she said again, and reaches for her. "Come here."

Constance comes and sits on the side of the bed. She is within reach, but barely. "What is it, your Majesty?" she asks gently. Constance is gentle with her; many people in court are, but Constance's manner never feels affected. She is kind because she wishes to be kind, not because she seeks advancement. Anne had not realized how much she longed for this until it was within her grasp.

"I would like for you to call me by my name," Anne says. She wets her lips slightly with her tongue. "And I would like you to kiss me."

Constance shifts closer to her. The candlelight catches her hair and her skin, bathing her in golden fire. Anne can see the tops of Constance's breasts, rounder than hers', with freckles disappearing under her corset. She wants to touch. Can't yet. She needs something else first. 

Constance is very close now, close enough that Anne can feel her breath on her face. She presses her mouth to Anne's, and it feels- entirely unlike anything else, entirely unlike the dutiful kisses she recieves from her husband. Louis kisses her because it is part of the equation that will result in offspring. Constance kisses without expectation.

"Is that what you want?" she asks, drawing back and pressing her lips together. This is Anne's role; she commands, gives orders. She is tired of commands. She wants to be taken out of want, not necessity.

"Kiss me again," she says. "And- touch me. Please."

Constance looks as if she is not sure what to make of this- not the order, not the  _please_  attached to the end. "How- how do you wish to be touched?" Her hands wring together in her lap. Anne thinks, perhaps she touches her hands together to keep from touching her queen. She hopes so. She would like to think she is desirable.

"However you want," she says, and reaches up to undo the tie keeping her nightgown in place. It falls down over her shoulders, and she is bare to the waist, clothed only in her hair. She flicks it back with a motion of her head, and she is entirely visible, entirely naked. Constance stares at her, wide-eyed, mouth slightly parted. No one has ever looked at her like that before.

"Touch me," Anne says. "Touch me- please, I need you to-" And Constance does, sliding both hands around Anne's waist and up to cover her breasts. Her thumb rubs over a nipple and Anne gasps, arches into the touch. "Y-yes. Yes, please, do that again, please-"

Constance shifts in closer. Her bodice brushes against Anne's bare skin, and the contact makes her shiver all over with pleasure. She kisses her again too, only this time her mouth is open. Anne opens her own, feels Constance's tongue slip inside, gasps. Constance's hands are still at work on her breasts, rubbing and flicking and squeezing gently. Anne pushes herself up, wraps an arm over Constance's shoulders, pulls her down until the other woman is a heavy weight on top of her, skirts spread out across the coverlet. Anne wants to slide a hand under those skirts, find where Constance is wet and wanting her, but she stifles her impatience as she has been taught. Instead she lets her hand hover over Constance's bodice. "May I?"

Constance's mouth is wet and red and gasping. Instead of a "yes," she takes Anne's hand and places it atop her breast, where she is almost falling out of her corset. Anne's hand is full and it feels like too much, there's so many things she wants and she doesn't know how to deal with having them all. With her free hand, she pulls at the laces of Constance's corset until it comes open and her skin is bared like Anne's. She lowers her mouth and kisses her there, kisses the underside of her breast and runs her hands all over the other woman’s torso while Constance whimpers above her, digging her fingers into Anne’s shoulders. Anne wriggles out from under her hands, out from under the covers, and sheds the rest of her nightgown so that she is bared entirely, spread out and open. Constance watches her for a long moment, as though unsure of what to touch first, and then tears at her own bodice and skirts, shedding them carelessly on the floor beside the bed until she too is naked. This- Anne wanted this but could not have imagined it, could not have held this picture in her mind’s eye. Constance is red and gold all over, like a lion, and she is strong. Anne looks to the curls between her legs, covering her sex, and the wave of wanting that comes over her makes her throb all over.

“Anne . . .” Constance breathes, and that is it- Anne cries out, taking Constance back into her arms and surging to kiss her mouth, her legs wrapping around Constance’s waist as if of their own volition. She feels Constance jerk against her, hard and wanting, and grasps her thighs, pulling her closer until there is not an inch of skin left untouched. Her fingers dance up the other woman’s legs, finding where she needs to be touched, and she strokes her until Constance is making helpless, high-pitched noises. She knows how this is done; she’s done it to herself many times, when her bed was cold and empty, but it is infinitely sweeter when she is not alone and can feel Constance trembling underneath her, shaking and gasping until she cries out with her release and goes limp.

Anne would be content with this, with knowing how she is wanted- but she is still slick and heavy with arousal, and Constance can tell. Her own hands slide down to where Anne aches for her and teases with her fingers, but she does not stop there. She pushes at Anne until their positions are reversed, Anne lying on her back with Constance above her. Constance kisses her way down Anne’s breasts and stomach until she reaches her destination and begins to lick at her, flicking her tongue up and down and adding her fingers to the pressure so that Anne squirms and cries out. She has never made such noises before, but she is warm all over and she knows she is loved, and she can feel her stomach clench and _oh_ -

Everything goes white for a long moment, suspended in time, and when she returns to herself, Constance’s head is beside hers’ on the pillow. She smiles slowly, like a satisfied cat, before her eyes dim. “I should leave. If we are discovered-”

“If we are discovered, I will say I requested your presence to warm the bed.” Anne reaches for her and pulls Constance into the circle of her arms. “No one will say otherwise. The Queen does what she pleases.” She is Queen Anne again, but not- queen because she takes what she pleases, and not because for the first time, she feels the love she has been told not to expect. The love is not her husband’s, but what matter? It is _hers_. Amidst all these belongings of the French crown, herself among them, she has found something to call her own. The thought makes her smile as she drifts to sleep, Constance a comforting warmth in her arms.


End file.
